


The New Normal

by breathtaken



Series: The New Normal [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Genderfluid Character, Other, Trans!Musketeer(s), Trans!d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1807657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Athos is thoughtful and considerate, and full of interesting ideas; and despite the age gap d'Artagnan feels, to his own surprise and delight, not like a child beside him but like an adult, for possibly the first time in his life."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Normal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Glitter On And Under Skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1749422) by [FunkyinFishnet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet). 



> Thank you to [FunkyinFishnet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/) for creating these iterations of Athos and d'Artagnan, and for kindly allowing me to play with them.
> 
> This fic follows on from both the inspiration work and [_Not the Secretary ___](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1757467); though the latter is not required reading to follow this one.

Being with Athos is at first wonderful and exciting and sort of a little scary, and makes shivers run down d'Artagnan's spine in the best possible way.

But as the months pass and that first uncertain newness levels out, d'Artagnan is pleasantly surprised to find that despite everything Porthos and Aramis have been telling him since he started working at Paris Ltd., Athos is sort of… normal.

Well, d'Artagnan amends mentally, not _completely_ normal. He's still that strange mix of almost ridiculously pedantic about some things and totally unbothered about others, and which it's going to be about any given subject, d'Artagnan can never quite predict. He's still almost entirely ignorant of popular culture, and refuses to see _any_ superhero films, even Captain America which is _really good_ , d'Artagnan promises, but he's surprisingly stubborn when he's made a decision.

He still works a sixty-hour week when d'Artagnan doesn't drag him bodily from the building to go and do something fun, but when he does then this small, surprised smile appears on Athos' face, like it's only just occurred to him that there's a life outside the office, and he's found he actually quite likes the idea.

Athos has a Blackberry he can barely operate, and dresses like something out of a Ralph Lauren catalogue on the weekends. He's funny when you least expect it, survives on a delicate balance of coffee and alcohol, and won't let anyone talk while he's reading. He's thoughtful and considerate, and full of interesting ideas; and despite the age gap d'Artagnan feels, to his own surprise and delight, not like a child beside him but like an adult, for possibly the first time in his life.

D'Artagnan's figuring out a few things of his own as well, which is roughly equal parts intimidating and wonderful; and when Athos takes him home in the clothes Jacques has made for him, the lust he sees in Athos' eyes is as affirming as it is arousing.

Tolerance, acceptance, understanding; these can all be faked, and d'Artagnan is not yet sure enough in himself to _completely_ believe words of reassurance when they come from anyone else.

Athos' desire for him, though, as his other self, is undeniable.

* * *

Athos wakes first, as he tends to on weekends, blinking the morning fog from his eyes until the numbers on the alarm clock come into focus; and he decides that half past nine is late enough that d'Artagnan can't justify complaining about being woken up _at the arse crack of dawn, Athos._

The memory makes him grin like an idiot.

He's finding he doesn't too much mind being the lovestruck idiot, these days.

He strokes d'Artagnan's hair where it's fanned out over the pillow, appreciating the sight of his face relaxed in sleep for a moment, before the urge in his bladder becomes insistent; and then pushes himself carefully out of bed in search of the toilet, and then coffee.

When he comes back with a small tray balancing two cups of coffee (one double-shot black, one ridiculous concoction of milk and sugar that can barely even be called coffee, and the fact that he's learnt it by heart just the same is a sign in itself, isn't it?), d'Artagnan is awake, sitting up in bed with the duvet wrapped closely round him, even though it's July and he'd only been half-covered not ten minutes before.

Something is off.

Athos hands d'Artagnan his coffee, climbing carefully back onto the bed to sit next to him, pressing their shoulders together through the duvet.

"Thanks," d'Artagnan replies automatically, but doesn't follow it up with anything.

Athos takes a sip of his coffee.

"Not getting up?" he asks lightly.

"Not yet," d'Artagnan replies, looking not at him but at the floor beside the bed.

Athos follows the line of d'Artagnan's gaze and sees the pile of d'Artagnan's discarded clothing from the night before. T-shirt, jeans, socks, and boxers, dropped on the floor in a messy pile.

Athos remembers stripping them from his body, the streetlight filtering through the curtains giving an strange orange cast to both their skin as he pulled d’Artagnan to the bed, like something otherworldly.

Everything always seems different in the daylight, for d'Artagnan too he supposes.

"I know it's silly, but I just don't fancy the idea of that today," d'Artagnan confesses, still eyeing the pile as if it might bite.

"It's not silly at all," Athos replies immediately, leaning just a little harder against d'Artagnan's shoulder, and glad when d'Artagnan leans back. Glad, too, that all the therapy he had after his divorce seems to have taught him a whole boatload of emotional skills he hadn't previously realised he'd been lacking. "Is there anything I can do?"

D'Artagnan shrugs the other shoulder, looking lost. "No, it'll be alright. I just need to psych myself up for it."

 _He's hurting, though_ , Athos thinks, with a twinge of sympathy at seeing such a bleak expression on d'Artagnan's normally so cheerful face.

Hang on – there _is_ something he can do.

He finishes his coffee and levers himself back out of bed, going over to open the wardrobe.

"Actually, I've got something for you," he calls out behind him, rifling through what was once supposed to be a tidy shelf of cufflink boxes and old jeans for DIY and a few guilty porn mags that he hasn't even looked at in years, and when will he learn to stop putting things in safe places? "I was waiting for the right moment, but –"

He sits back down on the edge of the bed and holds out the box.

"– I think this is it."

D'Artagnan's hands appear from under the duvet, which he keeps tucked firmly round his armpits, and reach out to take the box from him – which is pink, they only had pink, and Athos really shouldn't be worrying about whether that will bother him; but the truth is he's nervous as d'Artagnan slowly unravels the pink bow holding the box together as if he's afraid of what's inside it, and Athos hopes, _really_ hopes he hasn't fucked this up somehow.

When d'Artagnan removes the lid from the box and parts the tissue paper to reveal the lingerie beneath – which at least, is _not_ pink – he lets out a long breath.

"I wasn't sure about the bra," Athos says carefully, "but I thought I'd give you the option. In case you wanted to."

"Thank you," d'Artagnan murmurs, still staring – but in wonder, Athos realises with relief, as if he's holding something precious. "Thank you," d'Artagnan says again, looking up at him. "Really. I'm… sort of speechless."

The press of d'Artagnan's lips against his, though, the hand twining into his own, are answer enough in themselves.

"How about when you're ready, we drive past your house and you can pick a few things up?" Athos asks, tucking d'Artagnan's hair behind his ear. "You're welcome to start keeping a few changes of clothing here. There's plenty of space."

D'Artagnan nods. "That would be good."

"Shall I leave you to get dressed?"

D'Artagnan nods. "I'll meet you downstairs," he replies; and Athos kisses him again before going out of the room and carefully closing the door behind him.

When d'Artagnan walks into the kitchen a couple of minutes later, he's wearing the T-shirt and jeans from the night before, but there's a slight yet noticeable curving at his chest, which wasn't there before.

He looks better, too, as if a cloud that was hanging over has passed.

"Thank you again," he says, leaning over the back of Athos' chair and putting his arms around his neck. "They fit really well."

"I may have called Constance and asked if Jacques had your measurements on hand."

D'Artagnan kisses his cheek. "It was really thoughtful of you. I feel a lot better now. Like – it's just these clothes that are wrong now, and not _everything_. It's less like pretending to be something I'm not."

"How do you mean?"

"It's like… being happy," d'Artagnan says haltingly, as if he's trying out an idea that he's not sure will work. "Most days I'm happy, but some days I'm pretending to be happy when I'm actually not. That's sort of how I feel about myself. My body. It's mostly fine, but occasionally it isn't. But I still have to pretend it is, because that's what everybody expects."

Athos frowns, confused. "You have to pretend it feels okay to you, or you have to pretend you are who everyone expects you to be?"

"Both, sort of. I mean, if I'm not feeling right in my own body, I don't want to tell that to the whole office. But since I started wearing skirts, it helps me feel more myself on those days. So it's good that I can do that. That everyone just acts like it's normal."

"'Normal' is just other people's ideas of what they think you should be doing with your life," Athos replies automatically. "And you know that you never have to pretend with me, don't you?"

"I know." D'Artagnan kisses him again, on the lips this time. "Don't get a big head, but you're kind of amazing."

Athos smiles, ducking his head. "I try."

* * *

"I picked you up a few things to get started with," Constance says, pulling an assortment of pencils and plastic tubes out of a flimsy chemist's bag and laying them out on the table. "It's only cheap, but once you figure out what works for you then I can help you choose some better quality stuff if you want."

"This is brilliant, thank you," d'Artagnan replies, looking at the pile; realising that he has no idea what to do with _any_ of this stuff, one black eyeliner and mascara all that he's figured out so far. He's suddenly very grateful that he has Constance to help him with all this, and doesn't have to work it out on his own.

"I didn't get anything for your skin, because I don't think you need it," she continues, as businesslike as if they're working on a project together. "Though you might want a concealer for if you get a bad spot or something. And we can use my brushes for now, but you need to get a good set, otherwise it's like expecting to paint a masterpiece with your fingers."

"Concealer. Brushes." D'Artagnan repeats, opening up a tube of lipstick and twisting up the stick. It's a dark berry colour, and is rather intimidating. "Got it."

"I'll write you a list." Constance puts a hand on his arm, her face sympathetic. "Don't be scared of lipstick, it really pulls a look together. And with your skin tone, that'll look less dramatic on than it does in the tube. But it will draw attention to the fact that you're wearing makeup, which you might not always want.

"Also, it comes off on everything – glasses, food, other people – so it's good for an evening out, but not so good for an evening in, unless you particularly want to see it ending up all over Athos' face," she finishes, with a smirk.

D'Artagnan smiles back, and decides that actually, the idea of Athos covered in lipstick kisses – his kisses – is not a bad one at all. 

As Constance talks him through the basics of eye makeup, demonstrating first on one of her eyes and then letting him copy what she's doing on her other eye, it starts to seem less like a mysterious black art to d'Artagnan and more like something he could theoretically manage himself. He's starting to see how it fits together, at least, how the different products come together to form the whole effect; and though what he's managed so far is a bit messy, Constance reassures him it's just a question of practice.

He's doing her eyeliner, trying to get the series of small strokes to form into a coherent line as she's shown him, stretching out her eyelid with one finger as she suddenly says, "Can I ask – I've been reading some stuff on the internet, and… do you want to live as a woman? Completely, I mean?"

"No, not completely," d'Artagnan replies, glad that the part of his brain that normally goes into a small panic when people ask him about his gender is busy concentrating on not sticking Constance in the eye with the pencil. "How I feel... changes, and some days I'm fine with the way people have always seen me, but on other days, wearing skirts feels more like who I am inside."

"Okay," Constance replies consideringly. "So, girl days and boy days, maybe?"

_Girl days and boy days._

D'Artagnan tries not to think of himself as A Man; hasn't ever since he remembers, like a coat that's never fit quite right, but was the only one he had to keep him warm.

He's wondered more and more recently if he should be thinking of himself as A Woman, but it's big and alien and sort of terrifying, and he's not sure he wants to be that any more than what he is right now.

Girl days and boy days, though, that's something that sounds like it could fit.

Like he doesn't need to have anything more figured out than he already does, and he can just be whoever he needs to be to feel comfortable in himself.

"Yeah, I like that," he replies thoughtfully, finishing off the line. It's better than he expected, Constance's two eyes almost matching. "Girl days and boy days."

* * *

When Athos answers the door, it's to the sight of d'Artagnan in a blue silk dress that he hasn't seen before, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, the fabric catching the sunlight in all the right places. He can tell immediately that it's Jacques' work.

From the way d'Artagnan does a little spin for him in the hallway before kissing him hello, it's also obvious that d'Artagnan's just as fond of it as Athos is rapidly becoming.

"This new?" Athos asks, hanging d'Artagnan's jacket carelessly over the newel post.

"Old, actually," d'Artagnan replies, crossing his arms over his chest, as if he's feeling suddenly at a loss without it. "This is the first thing Jacques made for me, as a dry run for the New Year's party."

"It's gorgeous," Athos says truthfully, pulling d'Artagnan into his body by the hips, and kissing him first on the mouth and then down his neck, his hands stroking all over the soft fabric.

D'Artagnan's responding, but not as enthusiastically as he normally does; and if Athos isn't mistaken, there's something tense in the grip of d'Artagnan's hands on his shoulders, as if he's clinging to him rather than merely trying to keep him close.

"Everything okay?" Athos asks lightly, his hands stilling at d'Artagnan's waist.

"Yeah, I'm good. But –" d'Artagnan hesitates.

"Yes?"

"Hands stay outside clothes, please."

"Of course," Athos replies, running his thumb along d'Artagnan's collarbone where it meets the neckline of the dress.

He's careful at first after that; but whatever was held tight in d'Artagnan's body seems to have loosened, and as he's kissed back just as enthusiastically as he's kissing, Athos lets his hands roam again, across d'Artagnan's back and shoulders and down over his arse, across his sides and round to his ribs.

As he cups a palm around the curving at d'Artagnan's chest, feeling the bra cup beneath, d'Artagnan moans softly – and then pulls abruptly away.

"Too much?" Athos asks, moving his hand to d'Artagnan's upper arm.

"Yes. No," d'Artagnan replies, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I liked it, but I started to get – hard, and it just reminded me of how it doesn't always feel right to have… I'm sorry, you didn't sign up for this," he sighs, sinking down to sit on the stairs.

"I signed up for you, didn't I?" Athos sits carefully down next to him, leaving an inch of space between their bodies; and feels a wave of relief when d'Artagnan shuffles over to lean against him, taking d'Artagnan's hand where it lies in his lap. "Look, everyone has things they know about themselves and things they're still figuring out. You're still figuring out what your gender is, and what that means for your life. I'm still figuring out how to live in a world that doesn't have my brother in it any more, and getting over an appallingly toxic marriage. We're none of us fully formed.

"And you don't always have to want sex, whatever the reason."

"I know," d'Artagnan replies tiredly, dropping his head onto Athos' shoulder. "It's just – frustrating, because I do _want_ to, but sometimes I just can't get over the way it feels. Like this isn't my body. Or it shouldn't be."

"And I wish I could help," Athos says, squeezing his hand. "But I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here for when it feels okay again, and it certainly won't kill me to wait."

"Thank you," d'Artagnan replies, a smile in his voice again. "How do you always know exactly what to say to make me feel better?"

"Several years of very expensive therapy," Athos replies dryly, and is gratified when d'Artagnan chuckles. "Be glad you didn't know me before."

"I'm sure you weren't _that_ bad."

Athos gives him a wry smile. "I wouldn't have wanted you to be in a relationship with me, let's put it that way." He nudges d'Artagnan's head off his shoulder and stands up, pulling d'Artagnan up with him. "What would you like to do today?"

"Let's go out somewhere. Do something."

"Do you have anything in mind?"

D'Artagnan smiles the smile he uses when he's trying to be persuasive. "Ice cream?"

"A lady of simple pleasures," Athos replies, entirely on instinct; and is glad he did when d'Artagnan's entire face lights up like it's Christmas morning.

* * *

"No! I am not –" d'Artagnan glares at Aramis and Porthos over his wine glass, before casting a guilty glance over at Athos, who is leaning against the bar waiting to get served. He can't help the way his eyes are drawn to the curve of Athos' arse in his trousers, remembering the feel of it in his hands the night before as he sucked him down to the root.

Last night was a _good_ night, and he suspects he's already got the bruises on his thighs to prove it.

"I am _not_ helping you prank him," he continues, this time in an undertone. "You're on your own."

"We understand," Aramis replies, placing his hand over his heart. "But isn't there anything you can give us? Maybe just some information?"

"What like?" d'Artagnan asks warily.

"Anything at all could be useful," Porthos chips in. "You don't even need to incriminate yourself. Just something we could have worked out all on our own."

 _Fuck it_ , d'Artagnan thinks, if only because he wants to see what they come up with. He's not going to give them anything meaningful, of course, nothing that would betray Athos' trust in him; but a bit of trivia can't do any harm, surely.

"All his clothes come from Selfridges," he replies in a stage whisper, leaning further across the table, "because he doesn't know how to shop. He just goes in there and asks them to find him something."

"But he's always so well-dressed," Aramis replies, with what seems to be genuine surprise. "Well, I never."

"He gets a personal shopper. They've decided he's a good investment."

"That's rubbish! What are we going to do with that?" Porthos exclaims, clearly unimpressed by d'Artagnan's contribution.

"Porthos, you forget who we are," Aramis replies solemnly. "That's fantastic, d'Artagnan. Thank you."

Aramis grins and points to his cheek – his new favourite trick – and d'Artagnan leans over to kiss him there, pressing deliberately hard with his lips.

When Athos comes back to the table with another bottle it's to see Porthos and Aramis wearing matching expressions of studied innocence, d'Artagnan hiding behind his drink and trying not to laugh, and a perfect lipstick kiss on Aramis' cheek that just happens to match d'Artagnan's lips.

"What?" Athos demands, and then rolls his eyes as Aramis and Porthos just smile even wider and d'Artagnan lets out an involuntary giggle.

"The coffee machine is off-limits. Beyond that, I don't care."

* * *

The door to Athos' study opens with a quiet click; and d'Artagnan slinks inside, dressed exactly as Athos has requested, and looking good enough to quite literally take his breath away for a moment.

Athos is glad he's rearranged his desk so that it's in the middle of the room, and he can sit behind it. It definitely helps with the atmosphere.

"Ah, d'Artagnan," he says, in the brisk, businesslike tone he used to use back when he was still d'Artagnan's line manager, and was still trying to pretend to himself that his feelings for him were nothing more than merely cordial. "Performance review. Do sit down."

The only chair in the room is the one Athos is currently sitting in.

D'Artagnan looks around, momentarily confused; and Athos pats his lap expectantly, feeling suddenly nervous.

He breathes a sigh of relief when d'Artagnan catches on, and his expression becomes intrigued – seductive, even.

D'Artagnan slides sideways onto Athos' lap, and loops his arms carefully about his neck. "How have I been _performing_ then, sir?"

"Extremely well. I'm very pleased," Athos murmurs into his ear, hand creeping up his skirt – and raising an eyebrow as he finds a band of lace half way up d'Artagnan's thigh, and the straps of a suspender belt, which he snaps appreciatively with thumb and finger. "In fact, you're _full_ of surprises."

"There's another surprise for you further up," d'Artagnan replies with a grin; and if shifting himself round to fully straddle Athos' lap involves rucking his skirt up to his waist, well, it would have happened sooner or later anyway.

* * *

Trust Athos to be the kind of person who has a rooftop terrace, but barely ever uses it.

It's a warm night, and so d'Artagnan has insisted; and it's lovely, really, though his arse is slowly going numb from sitting on the flagstones, Athos having refused to let him bring the cushions from the sofa out here. He makes a mental note to persuade the man to get some garden furniture.

"The boy days are more of an absence of girl days than anything," d'Artagnan says, sipping his champagne ( _prosecco_ , Athos has pointed out more than once, but champagne sounds more special and he really doesn't give a shit either way). "They feel sort of neutral. But the clothing I was wearing before is good enough as any, then."

Athos' hand has found its way under d'Artagnan's T-shirt, and is tracing slightly tickly patterns on the bare skin there. "But it sounds like you don't feel that you're really expressing yourself in the same way?"

D'Artagnan shakes his head. "I've never minded the suits, actually – the boy suits, that is, because I knew they weren't really me. They're an image."

"They are for everyone, though," Athos points out. "Not in quite the same way, granted, but we dress like we do to project a certain image of ourselves."

"That's true," d'Artagnan replies, pulling the picnic blanket more closely around him, "but for me it feels like there's no default. Like I'm just projecting a series of images and there's nothing behind them." He falls silent for a few moments, considering.

"But the girl suits are better than the boy suits, so to speak?" Athos prompts.

"Definitely. I like having the option, anyway, on the girl days. Though I wouldn't want to wear them on the boy days. That would be weird."

"What about what you're wearing now?"

D'Artagnan looks down at his hoodie, fingering the cuff critically. "Okay, I guess? It's not _bad_ , but it's not _good_ either. I could buy my jeans from the women's section instead, but I don't know if that would change anything. I don't know. I'm sorry I'm being so vague."

"Hey," Athos leans over to take d'Artagnan's hand, where he's still fiddling with his cuff. "You don't have to have it all worked out, remember? But it might be worth looking into. Figure out what you like for when the girl days fall on a weekend."

"I might just," d'Artagnan smiles, sips his drink. "And talking of working things out. You're drinking less."

Athos looks awkwardly away, his profile falling into shadow for a moment. "I've – got other things in my life now. Aside from work."

"Sex and fun," d'Artagnan replies teasingly, poking Athos' thigh with his finger.

"Quite." He clears his throat, sees d’Artagnan look at him expectantly. “And I’ve decided something. I’m going to stop seeing Anne. Just let the lawyer handle it from now on.”

“Yeah?”

“The first time I tried refusing to see her she said it was childish, and I believed her," Athos continues, getting that distant look he always gets when he talks about his ex-wife, as if he's still seeing something that's not there any longer. "But I've come to realise that it’s just another way for her to keep her hooks in me. She can't stand the idea of me not caring about her.”

“Yeah. I’m glad,” d’Artagnan replies. “Not because she’s your ex, but because of how you get after seeing her. I think you’re right, you’ll be better without it.”

“And I might just manage to let it go,” Athos replies, draining his glass as d'Artagnan rests his head on his shoulder. “And move on. Properly.”

* * *

“Okay, that’s everything on the performance evaluation sheet,” Tréville finishes, sliding over to d'Artagnan the piece of paper they've just spent the last half-hour working through. “Sign in the box, please.”

D'Artagnan takes the paper and scribbles his initials in the bottom right-hand corner, remembering that one of these days he was planning to work on a more adult signature. He's not actually sure if you can just change your signature, though, or if all the passport and credit card people are going to start suspecting him of fraud.

He'll ask Athos. Athos always knows useful, adult things like that. Even though d'Artagnan still has to remind him semi-regularly of the importance of eating when you're hungry.

He passes the paper back and Tréville adds his own signature and the date, before leaning back slightly in his chair. “And how would you say everything’s going… generally? Aside from what we've covered?”

D’Artagnan smiles. Tréville’s far too polite to bring it up directly, of course, but what he really wants to know is how d'Artagnan's doing with his new, expanded wardrobe. Whether he's being given any hassle.

"Everything's going well," he replies easily. "Everyone's been very supportive of my… clothing choices. I mean, I'm not kidding myself that absolutely everyone _approves_ , but I've not had any negative comments."

"That's good to hear," Tréville replies. "If you do get any unwarranted comments from other staff members, you know what to do, right? Refer them to me or to the relevant sections of the staff handbook. I don't expect you to have to defend yourself."

"Sure," d'Artagnan replies. "I'm – a little nervous about meeting clients, though. So far I've always worn trouser suits, but I'm not always – happy about it, and…"

He hesitates. The last thing he wants to do is bring his personal issues into work, but this is a work issue really, isn't it?

"…Athos really isn't happy with me about it either," he finishes.

Tréville sighs slightly, leans a little further back in his chair. "Well, I'm afraid I can't promise there won't be any issues. Some of our clients are difficult people, as you well know. But anyone who does raise any objection, with Athos or with myself, will be firmly informed that they can always choose to take their business elsewhere. I've briefly discussed your situation with the management team, to avoid any surprises later down the line, and the company position is clear."

"Thank you, that's good to know," d'Artagnan replies, looking down at his hands for a moment. He hadn't _really_ thought Tréville would throw him under the bus for the sake of a client, but hearing that the company as a whole definitely has his back means more than he'd realised.

Perhaps now he can get on with earning that permanent position without the constant worry that sooner or later he's going to come across someone who just doesn't like his face (or his skirts, more to the point), and that at the end of his contract they will just decide he's 'not what they're looking for'.

He's knows he's good at his job, _very_ good, and he leaves Tréville's office with his heart considerably lighter to realise just how much he's valued.

* * *

D'Artagnan shifts back and forth against the sofa cushions, trying to bury himself even deeper without actually going to the trouble of moving, and slurps his tea slightly.

He's not spoken in a couple of minutes, and keeps biting his lip when he thinks Athos isn't looking.

"Alright?" Athos asks as he moves hands from one of d'Artagnan's bare feet to the other, rolling his thumbs methodically up the sole.

"I – I don't know how to say this really," d'Artagnan starts, and then clams up again.

"If it helps, my therapist always advised using 'I' statements," Athos replies, deliberately not looking up.

"Okay," d'Artagnan takes a deep breath. "So. I know that you really like me on my girl days. Sexually, I mean. And that’s good. But I worry that on my boy days it's not quite so… but I'm sure you don't really think that. I know it's just my own issues getting in the way. But I still worry about it. So… yeah."

Athos stays silent for a few moments, watching the way d'Artagnan's toes flex slightly if he presses in just the right place, trying to pull his disordered thoughts into something coherent.

"Please say something?"

"Sorry. Yes," Athos replies. "Well. I do have a bit of a – fetish, I suppose. But that's very much secondary to the fact that I'm in love with you. As a whole person."

"You're –" d'Artagnan puts his tea down on the side table, rather suddenly. It splashes.

"Yes," Athos repeats; and wonders for a moment if he should follow it up with something, but there's really nothing else to add.

He's known for a few weeks now. He realised it at work, inconveniently enough, when he was hung over and Anne had called him twice already that morning and his sanity was dangling by a thread as a result, and he was _this close_ to throwing something at Aramis' head if he didn't _fucking shut up_ ; and d'Artagnan had seen all the signs and dragged him off to the canteen for two paracetamol and a bacon sandwich, and Athos looked over at him as he told some bizarre story about being chased by swans as a child, and suddenly thought out of nowhere that he wanted to be the best person he could be for d'Artagnan, because he deserved nothing less.

Then D'Artagnan surges up and into his arms, kissing him thoroughly, and Athos puts both arms round his waist and tries to drag him into his lap, though d'Artagnan's kneeling up and it doesn't quite work.

"I love you too," d'Artagnan replies, with a smile that makes Athos want to hold him close forever.

"I've got something for you, actually," Athos says, leaning over for his bag and not quite being able to reach it.

D'Artagnan leans down and grabs it for him with a grin. "Oh yes?"

"I was doing some reading about gender fluidity, on the internet."

"You know how to use the internet?"

D'Artagnan's expression is such a perfect study in innocent confusion that it takes Athos a full second to realise he's being mocked.

"Shut up," he replies, gently shoving d'Artagnan in the shoulder. " _Anyway_ , one of the things I was reading about was people who have something physical they use to signify different gender days. Jewellery, mostly. And I took the liberty of picking something up. For if you wanted to do that, of course."

Athos takes d'Artagnan's hand from his shoulder and places a small velvet box in it.

Face suddenly serious, d'Artagnan opens the lid to reveal a small diamond pendant on a delicate gold chain.

For a moment, he doesn't say anything.

Athos clears his throat. "I hope it's not –"

"It's perfect," d'Artagnan interrupts, shifting to straddle Athos' lap properly as he kisses all the air from his lungs. Athos hears the soft snap of the box as it closes, d'Artagnan placing it down on the sofa next to them.

"You'll excuse me if I don't put it on right now," d'Artagnan says a few minutes later. "I'm not sure it goes with the T-shirt."

"I'll look forward to seeing it on the next girl day, then," Athos replies, tucking a stray lock of hair behind d'Artagnan's ear.

"There was something else as well, actually," d'Artagnan says, his hands gripping Athos' shoulders a little tighter, as they tend to do when he's nervous. "I was thinking I'd like to try some other pronouns, on my girl days. 'This is d'Artagnan, _she's_ my partner'. Just to see how it feels."

"Of course," Athos replies. "In that case, I hope you won't mind me talking about you in the third person a lot." He feels D'Artagnan's grip on his shoulders loosen slightly. "Just with me, or…?"

"Yeah, just at home," d'Artagnan replies. "If it works, then maybe we could roll it out to our friends. I mean," he sighs, "I don't expect everyone in the world to always get my gender right, as nice as it would be, but at least with the people I care about…"

"Absolutely. And I'm sure they'll be happy to," Athos replies confidently.

He strokes his hand up d'Artagnan's leg, feeling the prickle of stubble there. "Finish our tea, then bed?"

D'Artagnan grins. "Or we could fuck here and then we could finish our tea."

Athos sighs. "You can't wait a quarter of an hour until I've drunk this?"

"Can. Don't want to. Don't _have_ to." D'Artagnan grins. "There's lube in the side table."

"Of course there is," Athos says, more to himself than to d'Artagnan, but then he smiles and rubs his hand over the rapidly-growing tent in d'Artagnan's boxers, enjoying the breathy little gasp it brings forth. "What would you like?"

"Hand job. Both our cocks in your hand, lots of lube," d'Artagnan replies. "And I'll just lie back and enjoy."

Athos raises an eyebrow. "Or you could make yourself useful." He leans over to open the side table and takes out the little plastic bottle that's there, just as d'Artagnan promised. "Lights?"

"Please."

Athos pulls d'Artagnan close against him as he gropes behind him for the light switch, plunging them both into darkness just as their lips meet.

 

 


End file.
